


This Town's Been All Over You

by aimmyarrowshigh, spibsy (lucy_and_ramona)



Series: First Street 'verse [1]
Category: One Direction (Band), Union J (Band), X Factor (UK) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bakery, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Co-workers, Coffee Shops, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_and_ramona/pseuds/spibsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are still wrought-iron lampposts on First Street, and all of the shop's facades are brick and big glass windows and draping awnings like wedding cakes. The street has been the same for as long as there's been a town, and there's been a town ever since people from the city realized they could get away from the world if they moved across the strait to the island. It's a nice place to live, Ella thinks. Small enough not to be on a map.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Town's Been All Over You

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** : None! Although it's not set in the UK, per se, so there isn't any Britpicking -- it's sort of set nebulously, like Lemony Snicket's books or something. There's also one dirty joke and three mild swears, I think.  
>  **Disclaimer** : We don't own anything. No claim of knowledge or veracity is made towards anyone in the story and no aspersions or claims of character are to be inferred. We have no connection nor permissions from One Direction, X-Factor, Simon Cowell, SyCo Inc., Sony, ITV, or Columbia Records. No libel intended.

 

** This Town's Been All Over You **

****  
_001._  
  
It isn't Main Street, exactly, although it doesn't matter in a town so small: First Street is quiet and sleepy all day, and seems nearly always to be beneath cloudcover. There are still wrought-iron lampposts on First Street, and all of the shop's facades are brick and big glass windows and draping awnings like wedding cakes. The street has been the same for as long as there's been a town, and there's been a town ever since people from the city realized they could get away from the world if they moved across the strait to the island.

It's a nice place to live, Ella thinks. Small enough not to be on a map.

 ** _002._**  
She gets a tea at the bakery-and-coffee shop with a red awning on her way to her first day at the music shop, and her heeled boots clack on the cobblestone as she passes the thrift store and the pawn shop. There's a record store further down the block where her cousin had bought Ella her first Beatles album.

The music store is always a little dark and musty and smells richly of wood and polish. Small children sign up for piano lessons there, but they aren't given in the store. The majority of business seems to be teenage boys wandering in to sigh wistfully at guitars and put down ten-dollar deposits week after week until they can bring one home.

Ella meets Liam on her first day of work, trying to balance hot tea in one hand and read a list of the day's inventory at the same time. She's not looking where she's going and runs straight into what feels like a slightly soft brick wall, and goes arse over kettle, her tea now nothing but a spreading puddle on the floor.

"Damn," she curses under her breath, trying to save the list before it gets soaked. She's already been yelled at by two people today, so the last thing she's expecting is for someone to crouch beside her and try to help her pick her things up.

She's glad it wasn't a soft brick wall when it turns out to be a rather attractive boy. He's missing most of his hair, but in an endearing sort of way that makes her want to pet his head until it grows back, and there's a birthmark on his neck shaped a bit like that state in the US where they have all the cowboys and guns. Texas, maybe, or Tennessee. Somewhere with music.

Makes sense that it'd be somewhere with music.

"Sorry, that was my fault," the boy titters in a deeper voice than she was expecting. His eyebrows are all pulled together and he looks genuinely sorry. "I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you alright?"

Ella blinks. "Yes, I'm fine, thanks. Erm, I'm not sure where the oboe reeds are? Or go?"

"Oh, are you new here?" He perks up a little. "You've got a name tag and everything; sorry, I'm a bit thick. Ella, is it? I'm Liam, Liam Payne, I've worked here for -- Well, it feels like forever."

He actually shakes her hand. She didn't think anyone under thirty did that anymore unless they had the sort of job where they wore a starched suit, but Liam, Liam Payne does it. His hands are nice. She thinks they're probably trumpet-playing hands, and says so.

"Most brass actually," Liam says, and he smiles. "But trumpet longest. I started at summer camp when we needed a reveille."

"I never took up brass. When I was little, we did tests to see which instruments we'd be suited for, and my fingers couldn't stretch to reach the valves, of course, as I was only seven or eight. Never got up the nerve to try again." Ella thinks she's probably babbling, but Liam looks like he's actually paying attention, still smiling. He's got a nice smile.

"We do more business in everything else, anyway." Liam looks a little forlorn at that. "Winds mostly, for all the reeds, and strings for -- erm, strings."

"You do need strings for strings," Ella agrees. It's hard not to smile at Liam, when he looks so disgruntled. He's just got one of those faces, she thinks. "Erm, speaking of reeds -- ?"

"Oh, yes," Liam says, and stands. He's wearing dadpants, Ella thinks, and his shirt is tucked in, and he's _still_ fairly cute. "Oboe and bassoon are in the far corner. Oboeists and bassoonists are lurkers, in the main."

"Far corner," Ella repeats, her papers all gathered and her tea still pooling on the bright linoleum. "Right, I'll -- after I clean this up, of course, oh, it's making such a mess." She has to shuffle off to the side a bit so she doesn't step in it.

"That's alright." Liam moves to rest his hand on her elbow, then seems to think better of it. "It's not -- it's not like we're bustling with customers. You can take your time. I'll mop up. Did you ever get a tour of the store?"

"Er, no, it's my first day." The owner of the store has seemed frazzled every time she's met him, and she doesn't want to be the person to finally make him snap. It would be just her luck. "It's alright, I can find my way around, I'm sure. Learn as I go, right?"

"We probably _won't_ have anyone in until after school," Liam admits. "Go on and put your reeds away, and then you can drink your tea -- oh, erm, maybe another tea -- and I'll give you a tour? It's not a big store. It won't take much time."

Ella only thinks about it for a moment, out of politeness more than anything else. "Only if you're certain," she finally says. Letting a cute boy show her around the store sounds a lot more fun than trying to make her way around by herself. "If you had something else you wanted to be doing, I don't want to put you out."

Liam shrugs. He rolls up his sleeves and there are black tattoos on his forearms, following the lines of the bones, and that's a surprise. Ella thinks she rather likes surprises, even when they've made her spill her tea.

"You being here is the most exciting thing to happen all week," Liam says. "It'd be two weeks, but last week a ninety-year-old woman came in and sang 'Born This Way' on the stage piano and that was more exciting."

"Sounds like it would be. I think second best is alright if it's to that." Ella grins. He's funny and cute and he likes music. "I could sing Born This Way on the stage piano, if you'd like?"

Liam smiles again at that. "You could! Maybe later we can do a duet."

"I don't think I know all the words to it, though," Ella warns. "So if I break into Dusty Springfield in the middle, just go with it, alright?"

"They really weren't that different," Liam says. "Dusty Springfield was pretty outrageous for her day, too. One of the first out bisexual performers, and also very blonde. If Lady Gaga lived in the '60s, I could see her being more like Dusty than anyone else."

"That's what I think!" Ella exclaims. "Everyone else acts like I'm insulting one or the other when I say it."

"It's naive to think that that pop culture today wasn't influenced by the pop culture in the sixties." Liam comes alive, bright-eyed and smiling again. "It's been ages since I've had someone to talk to about music. The only people who ever come in here are the sort of people who think they're better for only listening to music from thirty years ago."

Ella touches her hair self-consciously, all too aware suddenly of the Victory Roll and her winged eyeliner. "I think it's just silly not to like a bit of everything from all decades. I like 'Written in the Stars' just as much as 'Loving You.'"

"It's all music," Liam agrees. "The only thing that's changed is people. Music means just as much now as it did back then."

"Or doesn't mean," Ella points out. "I'm sorry, but 1910 Fruitgum Company's lyrics are just the older equivalent to Nicki Minaj." She shakes her head. "Anyway, I have to find where oboe reeds go, and then I -- is there a kettle?"

"Oh!" Liam jolts a little, and then bobs his head in a nod. "Oh, yes, in the back. You can't miss it, just turn left and try not to knock over anything." His eyes go wide and he holds up his hands. "That wasn't an insult! I wasn't -- I don't think you're _clumsy_ , and this time I won't be in your way!"

"It's alright, I didn't think you were insulting me." She was, a little, but she can take lighthearted teasing as well as anyone. "Would you like a cup? It's the least I can do for taking up your time."

"There's nothing else to take up my time," Liam says. "All I normally do is play the instruments, and then around noon I go up to the bakery for lunch and come back to find one disgruntled OAP on the stoop, waiting for the doors to be unlocked."

"Is it always the same OAP?" Ella asks, amused. "Or is there a club?"

"I think it's a conspiracy, to be honest," Liam says. He shudders. "They often have red hats and purple pantsuits."

"They should be locked up," says Ella solemnly. "Crimes against humanity."

Liam grins at her then, and there's a bit of a suspended _moment_ hanging in the air. Outside their big window, the street lights finally douse as the morning fog dissipates enough to see from one side of the road to the other, and that makes Liam turn away and scrub a hand over his prickly-bald head.

"There'll be sugar in the cabinet, if you'd like." He's got this tiny smile on his face even though he's not looking at her, and the black lines of his tattoos show stark against his skin. "No milk, though, sorry."

"That's fine," Ella says. "I drink it black. Did you want a cup?"

"I'll be alright, thank you, though." He turns his smile on her. Ella thinks he could probably bring world peace with that smile on a good day. "I'd better start cleaning this up before it stains."

Ella nods and ducks her head so that she can stop _looking_ at him and finally go put the oboe reeds away. Across the street at the thrift shop, the lights finally come on, stuttering like they're sleepy.

"Always late," Liam murmurs, but fondly like he's speaking about an old friend. "I'll show you around in a bit?"

Ella nods, smiles at Liam, and heads towards the dark, cozy back of the store, where the music books change from piano covers of Gaga to classic wind arrangements of Benny Goodman and orchestral warm-ups and the racks on the walls sort reeds according to thickness instead of price. She watches in the corner of her eye as Liam steps up to the window and waves to the thrift across the way.

She supposes in a town as little as this, it'd be hard not to get to know the people who work in the neighboring shops. Maybe Liam will introduce her to some of them. It would be nice to have friends nearby, and if they're all as sweet as Liam, she'd like to meet them.

A little while later, the kettle whistles, but they don't hear it over their duet of 'Believe' by Cher -- because Liam said that it's really a good song, if you take out the synthesizers, and even though Ella's only known him an hour, she believes him.

 _ **003.**_  
"You put a red shirt in with the pink ones, again!"

This sort of shouting is all too common in the thrift store by the corner, so common in fact that nobody ever pays any mind when a ball of righteous fury storms past them. It's almost an everyday occurrence.

The righteous ball of fury, more commonly known as 'Louis,' strides right up to his coworker and shoves a red blouse in his face. His coworker, Josh, simply looks bored, on the edge of rolling his eyes.

"Does this look pink to you?" Louis asks him, blue eyes icily narrowed. "It's not. It's red. So why would you put it in with the pinks?"

"Because it is pink," Josh says, sticking out his jaw. It's not a difficult task, as he has a very good jaw for sticking out indignantly.

"It's _not_ pink," Louis argues. "It has tiny little stripes of red and white. That does not make it pink."

"It does when the stripes are so small as to make the shirt _look pink_."

"Just because something looks pink from a distance doesn't make it pink!" Louis exclaims, his mouth set in a frown. "If I see someone who looks sort of like Gary Barlow in the street, I don't go up to them and ask them to sing Take That's greatest hits, do I?"

"I've seen you do that." Josh rolls his eyes. "You do that like once a week."

"It's funny because it's Liam," Louis mutters. "I wouldn't just go up to a _random_ and -- that's not the point! It's red. It's red and white, but it's not pink, so don't put it in with the pink shirts."

"My gauge for the red section is whether it looks like your ridiculous trousers," Josh says. He comes around the register counter and snatches the shirt back out of Louis' hands. "If it blinds me as much, it goes with red." He holds the shirt next to Louis' thigh. "See? Pink."

"That's an awful system. Where would you put maroon, then?" Louis snatches the shirt back. "It's red. It's red and you're an idiot."

Josh watches Louis storm off to hang the shirt again and stuffs his hands in his own pockets, shaking his head. "You utter whizzer."

"That isn't a _word_!"

"You're not a word," Josh mumbles, shaking his head as he watches Louis put the shirt in with the other red ones. He makes a note to put it in the pink section again later. Louis is awfully entertaining when he's all flustered.

It's not that they dislike each other. In fact, they're rather good friends and share the high score on about every video game and arcade machine in town, which strikes deep fear into the hearts of all of their friends come a lazy Sunday afternoon. It's just that they're too similar, in a lot of ways, and one of the worst is that they _like_ pissing the other off.

Josh has always thought of it as a sort of game. Nobody else can keep up banter with him quite like Louis can. He likes to think Louis feels the same way about him, but they've never talked about it. Josh doesn't even know how that would come up in conversation.

They don't really _talk_ in conversations, Josh and Louis. They mostly talk in arguments and sometimes by wearing snarky fashion; if Josh turns up wearing sailor stripes, then all hell breaks loose in the shop that day and by noon, someone's stormed down to the coffee-and-bakery in a fuming whirlwind of righteous anger to be calmed down with buns and plied with tea.

(It's Louis, most of the time, who storms off. Not that Josh doesn't get just as worked up; he just knows that Harry from the bakery is far more to withhold buns and tea if he thinks Josh has upset Louis. Which is understandable, of course, as Louis is Harry's best friend, but the double standard rankles Josh anyway.

He does think that George could be a little more inclined to take his own side. He thinks of George as something of a protégé, and has ever since they were six years old back in the city and Josh showed George how to catch a Mewtwo.)

In the end, it works. Josh has his mates and Louis has his own, but they work together to take care of this little shop, even if they have their disagreements. If Josh really needs to complain, JJ will listen to him, and Jaymi will tell him when he's being a knob.

The one thing they do agree on is that the shop needs to stay here. First Street needs their impeccably clean, if disorganized, thrift store full of soft old t-shirts and trousers that Louis patches and hems and makes sure look presentable before they go on display.

Louis straightens the sleeves of the pink shirt on its hanger, pats it affectionately, and stomps back over to the counter. He hip-checks Josh when he scoots around behind him to reach his tea and bacon sarnie.

"Where's my breakfast, then?" Josh asks, making a show of peering around Louis' shoulders. "If you're going to abuse me, you'd better have food to make up for it."

Louis talks around a mouthful of bacon and brown sauce. It's not attractive. "Get your own, you know where the bakery is."

"Yeah, but Harry charges me," Josh points out. "Anything you order is free, even that giant fuck-off cake that one time. And that tasted awful."

"It tasted like friendship," asserts Louis, tipping his chin up. It's not as impressive as when Josh does it. Louis doesn't have quite enough chin. "You're just jealous because nobody ever brings you cake."

It's true; Josh isn't the sort of person who's brought cake. JJ sometimes does bring old broken Atari games for him, though, which is sweet in its own JJ-like way.

"Not my point," he says. "If you're getting it for free anyway, you could get something for me as well. Otherwise all I'll get are Werther's Original, and that's not breakfast food."

Louis hums and swallows his sandwich. "Say I'm right about the shirt being red and I'll go get you a sausage roll."

"Not fair!" Josh complains, giving Louis his best pout. He's got a good pout.

Louis jumps over the countertop and lands on his feet like a cat. He holds his arms out wide in a Kanye shrug and the little 'oops!' tattoo near his elbow seems to taunt Josh (which he suspects is the whole reason Louis got that thing).

"It _is_ fair," Louis says. "Because I am right, and I'm also in charge, and if you admit that I'm right, then I have the authority to reward you. Otherwise, you can go hungry. Or I'll fix you gruel, because I'm not actually mean enough to make you go hungry, but -- gruel!"

"You wouldn't really fix me gruel, would you?" Josh leans his elbows onto the countertop and intensifies the pout. "I'd get you sausage rolls all the time, if I were in charge."

Louis sniffs and starts rearranging the side table of bowties, string ties, bolo ties, and the lone ascot. Josh prefers them ordered by size, decreasing from largest to smallest. Louis prefers them by color.

"It's not my fault Harry loves me more than George loves you." He pins a blue clip-on bowtie to the v-necked collar of his shirt. "What d'you think?"

"You look like a dick," Josh says bluntly, following it with a charming smile. "A nice one, though. The best dick in the world who loves getting breakfast for his very favorite coworker?"

"I'm going to tell _everyone_ that you think I've the best dick in the world," Louis informs him. He leaves on the bowtie. It clashes horribly with his orange braces and red trousers.

"Everyone at the bakery?" wheedles Josh.

Louis throws a misplaced jumper at Josh's head. "Will it make you shut up?"

"Definitely," Josh confirms, snatching the jumper and carefully folding it. "It definitely, totally will."

Louis collapses dramatically in defeat. "Fine. I will get you a sausage roll. But when I come back, we need to change the window display. It's nearly Christmas; we should move the embarrassing jumpers to the windows and put the surf t-shirts in the back inventory."

Maybe there's more shouting than would go on in another thrift store, and maybe they could try to be a little more professional in front of the customers. But Josh has known most of the little old ladies who shop here since he was eight and moved from the mainland, and they don't do anything but smile indulgently when he and Louis snipe at each other, and they offer him sweets while he rings them up.

It's not the most peaceful storefront on First Street, but he rather thinks that without him and Louis, the entire row would be _so_ peaceful and serene that everyone would fall asleep right where they're stood. He'd seen a girl go into Liam's music shop this morning, though -- it isn't really Liam's yet, but it may as well be, since they haven't seen Mr. Walsh, the owner, in about two years -- and maybe that will bring a bit more excitement to their end of the street.

God knows Liam could do with some excitement, Josh muses as he leaves his till to put the shirt back where it belongs, among its pink brethren. He has no idea when Liam's last excitement was, but it probably had to do with polishing tubas, and that's just sad.

Working in a thrift is actually fairly exciting, as far as the little shops go. It's not JJ's pawn shop, because you _really_ never know what's going to turn up in your hands there, but sometimes people deliver clothes in massive boxes for Josh and Louis to sort through and there are really cool things; old concert shirts and prom suits from the 1980s and once, a ruffled ascot that Louis wore for weeks.

It did look rather fetching on him, though Josh had told him it made him look like an elven version of Fred from Scooby Doo. There's not much Louis _doesn't_ look good in, but to tell him that would cause Josh to lose the game. He's not sure how, but he knows it would.

Louis is six months older than Josh, but got him the job at the shop after working there for years while Josh was still pissing about at home (mostly playing Pokemon). He might be high-strung, but he knows what he's doing and he's a good boss. Like Liam, he isn't the _real_ boss, but Louis takes care of all the banking and everything now so the only person Josh considers to be above him is the landlord of the whole shopping row, Mr. Cowell. He's never met him, but Louis has.

"Josh!" comes another shout, and Josh smiles as he begins counting up the money at the till again. They're a little different from an ordinary shop, but he thinks anything else would be boring.

 ** _004._**  
At any moment in the pawn shop, JJ has to be prepared to catch something. Whether it's because something's falling over or because Niall's thought it'd be fun to throw antiques at JJ's head, there's always the possibility that JJ is going to need to catch something.

Niall's young, and JJ probably wouldn't have hired him at all, except he's very charming and funny and Irish, and customers love all of those things. Niall brings in more repeat customers than JJ'd ever had before.

And Niall has a strange knack for fixing broken things. Not actual repairs, like, once JJ set him to prod about at one of the coils at the back of an old toaster and they'd nearly burnt down the entire street, but somehow, broken toys are less broken once Niall's set his mind to them.

He's always in before JJ, though why, JJ has no idea. He doesn't stock the shelves or sweep or anything. He just lounges on the counter and when JJ opens the door, his face lights up.

"What's for breakfast?" Niall always asks, and JJ always responds with something about how it'd serve Niall right if JJ didn't bring him anything.

He does, though, because if he doesn't keep Niall fed, the boy gets sluggish and cranky.

It's a bit like being back with the ponies.

If ponies had loud laughs, and ridiculous accents, and a tendency to throw the nearest object at people. Not people, actually, just JJ.

In the morning, though, first thing, it's JJ who gets to throw something at Niall and today, it's a carefully-wrapped oversize everything breakfast bagel sandwich that Harry and George made over at the bakery. It weighs about the same as the fabled antique toaster.

("It's Niall-size!" they'd said delightedly, and once the two of them decided that something was delightful and smiled about it with all their teeth and dimples and cheekbones, it seemed to become an actual delightful thing. JJ sometimes thinks that maybe First Street is magic, or at least the people on it are.)

"You're a legend," mumbles Niall, already inhaling his sandwich. He sounds sleepy and croaky and his accent's thicker with it, and it makes JJ smile.

He flips the sign on the door and waits for the fog to die down. He'd passed Jaymi in the street and Zayn in line at the bakery, but he always likes to be able to see them through the little bare spot of window that the pawn shop has left. They tend to exchange dramatic head-shakes whenever Louis storms off past their shops because Josh's ticked him off again.

"Someone brought in a box of hamster wheels," Niall says around his bite of sandwich. The giant thing's almost half gone already. "Nothing else, just about twelve hamster wheels. Dunno if they had loads of hamsters or just one that really liked exercise."

"I hope they had loads of hamsters," JJ says. "Imagine one really buff hamster. Terrifying."

"The Hulk of hamsters." Niall grins at JJ with bits of bagel in his teeth. It's oddly endearing. "There'll be a film about hamsters that take over the world, you watch."

"Wasn't there one?" JJ asks thoughtfully. He picks apart his cinnamon bun, unwinding it like string, so he can only eat the cinnamon-y bits. He doesn't like the rest. "They were hamster soldiers or summat?"

Niall puts on a contemplative expression. He might be actually contemplative, or he might be making fun of JJ. It's hard to tell, most of the time. "There was one about cats..."

"No, no, I'm sure of it," JJ says. "This was hamsters. Or guinea pigs. Are they the same animal?"

"I'll look it up later. Maybe they were guinea pig wheels. I wouldn't know the difference." Niall licks the remnants of melted cheese from his fingertips and belches.

"It's times like these I wish that window opened," JJ says. He punches in the key for the register, double- and triple-checking it on the little pad of paper they keep taped up because neither of them can ever remember the security code. The bank are nice enough when they have to call because they've lost the passcodes to their own safe, but it's still embarrassing.

Niall wipes his greasy fingers on his own trousers, dropping the wrapper into the bin beside the counter. "Remind me to tell George and Harry they've outdone themselves. Masters of baking, they are."

JJ takes a pen and writes _tell h & g: good at baking - n_ on the pad of paper.

Niall sighs fondly. "What would you do if I stole your little pad of paper? How would you remember anything?" He slides across the counter to set his chin on JJ's shoulder and give him a hug.

JJ's never really had the heart to tell Niall that it's a bit weird to cuddle your boss so much. And he's nice enough.

"I'd write it on my hand or something, I don't know." JJ shrugs as well as he can with what feels like twelve limbs around him. "Write it on your face."

"How very dare you." Niall lets go of JJ and disappears around a teetering column of board games and puzzles. "I'm going to see what I can do about that wind-up clock, the one with the Mickey and Minnie that should come out on the hour and aren't."

"Wash your hands first or you'll get fingerprints all over!" JJ calls, fixing the stack so it looks a little less precariously balanced. He thinks it does, anyway. It probably looks exactly the same, but it makes him feel better.

He takes out another pad of paper and starts marking down inventory of everything they have in the shop. They have things stolen the most of anywhere on the street, although it doesn't cost them shrinkage, it's still a lost profit. Someone, somewhere, always wants a Garfield alarm clock or an Asterix sweatshirt.

The bell tied to the door tinkles, and JJ pokes his head around a tower of Teddy Ruxpins to see Jaymi waving at him.

"Hi!" he greets, pleased. He sees Jaymi all the time, but it's always nice to have something to break up the monotony of the work day. Not that any work day is monotonous with Niall around.

"Hullo," Jaymi says, and plonks a cardboard box down on the countertop. "We got a delivery today and half of it's more suited to you. D'you want to have a look?"

"Of course." Jaymi's shop tends to get loads of little music related knick-knacks, things people give away with their old LPs or stacks of 45s. "Thanks, all we got today was a massive box of hamster or guinea pig wheels, we're not sure which."

"Guinea pigs can't run on wheels," Jaymi says. "Their spines don't work that way."

"You would know that," says JJ with a shake of his head. "I'll tell Niall when he's done fixing that clock." He makes a note of it on his pad -- 'g. pigs can't use wheels (spines)'.

Jaymi rubs JJ's shoulders fondly. "You and your notes. What've I got for you today..." He digs into the box and holds up -- "Gary Numan lunch box?"

"A classic," JJ laughs, taking it and sliding it along the counter. He'll find a place to put it somehow. Everything goes somewhere, after all. "You just know someone's been wanting one of these all their life."

"My mum is one," Jaymi agrees. "I have a... Mr. Potato Head? I don't think that was meant to be in the box, but here it is."

"Liam might want that, actually. Or, he probably already has three." JJ shrugs and takes it anyway. He can ask Niall later if Liam has one. To be safe, he makes a note of that, too.

"Does it have all the pieces?" he asks curiously. "Almost none of our Mr. Potato Heads actually have all the noses left. What do people do with the spare noses?"

Jaymi looks into the box curiously. "Maybe there's a nose under the rest of it. Who would want a Mr. Potato Head nose but nothing else?"

"That's what I'm asking," JJ says. "People have sold us naked, empty Mr. Potato Heads, too. What do they need all the bits for?"

"I don't think I want to know." Jaymi wrinkles his nose.

"I do." JJ generally wants to know more about everything. He lives in his head most of the time, even though it brings about mockery from all of the other lads on the street save Niall and Liam. Niall probably only doesn't take the piss out of loyalty, but JJ suspects that Liam might wonder all the same things he does. Maybe he knows what extra Mr. Potato Head noses are for.

 _ask liam: potato noses_ , he writes.

"How often do you need to get new little pads of paper?" Jaymi asks him. "You must go through them quickly; you're always jotting things down."

JJ shrugs, still writing down the inventory of pieces on the Mr. Potato Head. "Probably every week. Get one on Sundays."

"Weirdo," says Jaymi affectionately, reaching over to ruffle JJ's hair. "You want me to just leave the rest of this here for you?"

"If you need to be getting back," JJ says. "I don't have anything for you today. I think most people head to yours first when they have music these days."

"Probably," Jaymi agrees, offering JJ a smile. "You get all the other shit. I'll see you later, right?"

JJ smiles back, but he's always a little more insulted, deep down, than he lets on when the other lads call the things he and Niall sell 'shit' or 'junk.' It's weird things, and they're broken a lot of the time, but he _likes_ what they do. These are things that meant a lot to people, and will mean something to someone else. They're like, helping people and things find their way to come together in the world.

Jaymi waves before he pops back out the door, leaving mostly silence in his wake. JJ can hear Niall now, humming quietly as he fiddles with the clock in the backroom.

JJ takes the box around so he can put the new items on shelves with the rest of their ilk. The Gary Numan lunch box goes between Garfield and George Harrison; the Mr. Potato Head joins the rest of his potato-shaped family by the toys.

Nobody comes to a pawn shop before nine in the morning, so they've still got ages before anyone's due to show up and peruse their stock. JJ could go watch Niall work, or make sure everything's in its proper spot, or take out the trash even though there isn't any yet.

Instead, he does what he does every morning, and sits on the counter to check through yesterday's list of questions to ask people and things to say. He hasn't seen Liam yet, so he saves those notes; Louis, he figures, will stomp past later and he can catch him then.

But --

"Niall?" JJ calls. The tinkering sounds stop.

"What?"

"I really like your haircut!" JJ says back. It's good he wrote it down, because Niall's wearing one of his stupid snapbacks today and his hair's not even visible.

There's a pause, and then a laugh as the tinkering sounds start back up.

"That's good to know," Niall calls back. "I like yours, too. George said it looks like a pineapple, but I like pineapples."

 ** _005._**  
The music's up loud as Jaymi returns, the noise of the bell above the door lost in the rhythm of Ne-Yo's newest single. "If you see a Mr. Potato Head nose around anywhere, JJ's looking for it," he informs Zayn, sliding his way across the counter.

Zayn cups a hand around his ear. "What?"

Jaymi rolls his eyes, grabbing Zayn's sleeve and pulling him closer to talk into his ear. "If you see a Mr. Potato Head nose, JJ wants it. Apparently people use them for weird sex stuff, or that's what it sounded like."

Zayn thinks about this for a long minute. Then he just shrugs and sings, " _She a diva, take a second to turn you into a believer; she a viva in the middle of the July_."

"Idiot," Jaymi says with obvious affection. He bends to flip through their newest batch of LPs. "Do you want to help me sort these?"

Zayn nods, still belting 'Don't Make 'Em Like You.' They spend a lot of their time in the store singing.

(Sometimes they trade off solos and the customers all clap. It's Jaymi's favorite part of his job.)

He heaves a stack out and plops down on the floor, separating them into '60s', '70s', '80s', and 'what?' piles.

There aren't very many record stores left in the world. Their store is one of the busier hubs on First Street as a result, because sometimes hipsters from the city will make an evening trek out or skive off school or work when they have a sale, but the majority of their actual profits, they have to earn selling records over the internet. They have CDs and cassettes and even beta tapes and 8-track, too, but people don't want those as often. Cassettes are making a comeback, Zayn insists, but Jaymi privately disagrees. For him, it will always be about the vinyl.

Zayn is still mouthing along to the song and tapping out the rhythm on the edge of the crate even as he sorts through the records. That's one of Jaymi's favorite things about working with Zayn: He's someone who cares about music just as much as Jaymi does. Zayn wears weird glasses sometimes and his hair is frankly ridiculous, but he's a laugh to have around, and he knows his stuff, and he doesn't complain when Jaymi mothers over him about how skinny he is.

In return, Zayn is one of the few people who seems to _get_ what Jaymi needs when he talks about tattoos. Zayn's even designed a few for Jaymi, and he's a right proper artist. It's good to have someone, in general in the world, who feels so on the level to Jaymi, and he's glad that of everyone on their street -- of all of their friends -- Zayn wandered into his record store three years before and shrugged up at him through fringe dotted with raindrops and said, "I'm looking for a job and the comics shop closed. Are you hiring?"

Jaymi hadn't been hiring, not ever, really. But there was something about Zayn he'd liked, and wanted to keep around.

"If I stop off at the bakery for lunch, what d'you want?" he asks, neatening the piles he's made. He has to ask now, early, because sometimes it takes Zayn an awfully long time to decide what he's in the mood for.

Zayn just hums, and Jaymi knows that it will be one of those days that Zayn can't tell him until it's half-twelve and Jaymi's got one foot out the door. "Dunno, really. I'd take a vanilla coffee thing, the ones without the coffee, the cold ones? I can't remember what George is calling them these days."

"He calls the coffee ones Icychinos," Jaymi snorts. "But _yours_ is just called a milkshake."

"No, no it's not," Zayn insists, batting a hand at Jaymi. "It's called something cute. Everything there's got a cute name. It's like a... Dairysplosion or something stupid that Harry thinks is the best thing ever."

"It does all have cute names." Jaymi wrinkles his nose. "Everything on this street has a cute name."

It's true, except for their record store, which is just called Trax. The X was there long before Jaymi bought the store, clean out of a bad relationship in the city and new to the island. He's always assumed that it used to be Tracks, and then the '80s happened.

"I think it's part of Harry and George's plan to take over the world," Zayn says, hushed like he thinks they'll be able to hear. "They could do it, you know. With their faces."

"I don't like to think about it." Jaymi pretends to shudder. "Besides, Harry has too many tattoos now for that. He's just an indigent, like us."

Zayn snorts. "He could get a tattoo over his whole face and grannies would still coo over him in the street."

"Don't let him hear that," Jaymi warns. "He'll expect you to design it."

"And I would." Zayn shakes his head, bewildered. "Do anything he asked me to if he smiled. I used to be cool. Then I met him, and the other one."

It's fun to watch, Harry and George somehow making everyone do things. They’re so enthusiastic and bright, and it makes Jaymi want to do things, accomplish stuff. Sometimes he thinks Harry really is the magic of the whole street.

He knows that JJ thinks that it's Harry and George together, or sort of the combinations of them all together making each other better, and then Harry and George most of all. (Once, after several many beers, JJ had confided to Jaymi that he secretly thought Harry and George were elves. _Harry Potter type, probably_ , he'd said. _Getting things done and doing mischief magic and that._ )

Jaymi had laughed like it was ridiculous, and it _is_ ridiculous, but part of him isn't so sure it's not true. They're special, Harry and George. More special, probably, than anyone else Jaymi's ever met, except Zayn, and part of Jaymi's certain he dreamed Zayn up one day and then he appeared.

Jaymi laughs and waves a Muppet Babies album in Zayn's direction, as if to as _80s, 90s, or what?!_.

"What," Zayn decides, finishing off his stack by placing a battered _Hunky Dory_ in the 70s pile.

Once things are sorted by decade, they move into genres -- their one demi-concession to cuteness, since they have to label things honestly, and genres like 'lolli-pop' come out of the 1960s and 'sequin-wearing break-up rock' fill the 1980s -- and then, finally, alphabeticals.

It's slow, tedious work, but Jaymi and Zayn are both content not to talk.

If they had to work with Louis, they both privately think they'd go mad.

"And that's all!" Jaymi announces, sliding the last record into its proper position. "For the morning, anyway. Someone'll probably bring in a thousand more by noon."

"We have the orders to sort, too," Zayn reminds him. "Tomorrow's Thursday and they have to go in the post."

Jaymi always wonders how he ended up running the most business-like business out of their group, but then he remembers that Liam sells to a niche market and Louis is sort of a loon, JJ and Niall do a steady trade in something that has no profit, and Harry and George make a profit, frankly, on their faces as much as anything they make. Jaymi's the responsible one, even if he did choose to buy a record store in an economy that can't even support digital music sales.

As long as he remembers to actually _sell_ his records, he and Zayn do fine.

"Yeah, not like we haven't got time." Jaymi hooks an arm around Zayn's neck, scanning the sorted records to make sure they're all in the same place. He'd ruffle Zayn's hair, but he's not suicidal. "We'll get it done. We always do."

Zayn nods, but Jaymi can tell he's a little worked up. It's not that Zayn is easily stressed out; it's more that Zayn hates having to do work, so it all piles onto the last minute.

All Zayn wants to do is sing. And draw. And sleep.

"Hey," Jaymi says softly. "It'll get done. D'you want to get started on it, and I'll make sure there's not anything else in the back that needs sorting?"

Zayn shrugs and opens his mouth to answer, but at that moment Louis goes storming past their window in a flail of color and curse words.

"I wonder what Josh has done this time," Jaymi mumbles, unable to hold back a smile. It's cute, how worked up Louis and Josh get over each other. Adorable, really. "Any guesses?"

"Insulted his trousers, most likely," Zayn says. "Or his shoes. You know how he gets about his shoes."

"Ooh, or maybe his hair. Last time he nearly shouted the street down when Josh said something about his hair." Jaymi shrugs. "Not that Josh can really go 'round judging hair."

"They probably got on each other about their hair," Zayn agrees. He heads around the counter to start printing off their order list for the week. They made it a policy to ship on Thursdays only because they both despise the post office, and it takes a trek on the ferry to get there anyway, which cuts out an hour of the day on its own. "Maybe Louis tried to get Josh to wear a hat again."

"I'm with Josh on that one, he looks awful in hats. Makes his head look like it's made out of Lego."

Zayn snorts at that and shoves the distro list to Jaymi. He takes an extra sheet of paper out of the printer and doodles a quick sketch of a Lego block in a beanie, then tacks it up on their corkboard.

"Perfect rendition," Jaymi mumbles as he looks over the list. "Not too bad this week. That bloke with the Herman's Hermits fetish gave us a break this week."

"So weird." Zayn shudders. "I mean, I'm glad for sales, but that's a weird one. Maybe he's discovered all the thermoses of them at Niall- and JJ's."

"I hope so. I'd be glad to be rid of him." Jaymi echoes Zayn's shudder and shakes his head, setting the list on the counter again.

Zayn is quiet for a long time as they sort their way through the stacks to take out the records to be shipped, group them by recipient, and cross them out on the inventory for the week. Zayn is mostly quiet, but Jaymi is just beginning to wonder when he'll spit out whatever's bothering him when he says --

"Did you see Liam has a new hire?"

"Does he?" Jaymi raises his eyebrows in surprise. The music shop doesn't lend itself to new employees. Liam's basically been running it since he was seventeen. "Good for him; maybe he'll be able to relax a bit more often."

"Yeah, I'm not sure why she's there." Zayn sounds disgruntled. There's another pause and then, "It's been a while since someone new came to work around here."

Jaymi takes a moment to think that over. "The last was probably Georgie, wasn't it? That was ages ago, you're right, it's been forever."

Zayn nods. It's another few minutes and the beginning of a light rainfall outside before he says, "D'you think it will change things?"

"D' _you_ think it'll change things?" Jaymi challenges, leaning against the counter.

Zayn just blinks at him, and Jaymi sighs. "It changed when George came, but that wasn't bad. Just because it might make things different doesn't mean it'll be bad, and anyway, maybe his hire is like 80 years old and won't want to hang out anyway."

"She's young." Zayn still sounds grumpy. "And she's really pretty. A bit younger than Harry, I think."

Jaymi cracks a grin at that. "Is Zayn upset that someone might be prettier than him?" He taps his knuckles on Zayn's shoulder. "Didn't we go through this with George, too?"

Zayn sniffs, glowering. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Jaymi shakes his head. Outside the window, Louis goes grousing back up the street to Woven Threads Thrift, covering his hair with his forearms and pouting severely in the rain.

"You know you're the prettiest," Jaymi says soothingly, doing his best to stop the corners of his mouth twitching. "The prettiest out of all of us. Even new girl, I'll bet."

"Shut up," Zayn mumbles. He heads off to the discount racks by the door. He moves a Hanson cassette viciously, but cheers when Louis accidentally sprays himself with a puddle.

"You should give her a chance," Jaymi singsongs, flicking through the 'A's. "You gave George a chance and now look at the pair of you. Thick as thieves."

"Only because I like Harry," Zayn argues weakly, "And you can't get Harry without a George wrapped around him anymore. They're like a shark and a ramora."

"They haven't always been, though. At first, George didn't know anybody around here, and he thought we all hated him, and that you were going to murder him in his sleep." Jaymi fixes Zayn with a look.

"I'll be nice to Liam's new assistant," Zayn promises, holding up both hands. Then he frowns and flips a Bay City Rollers tape to face the right direction. "I'm just saying, I -- like how things are."

"Doesn't mean you won't like the way things will be." Jaymi frowns, but decides to drop it. Zayn's stubborn at the best of times and petulant at the worst. "Decided what you want for lunch?"

Zayn sighs and drops his head against the window like living with so many choices is entirely too much for his neck to bear the weight of.

"It's a long ways away." Jaymi checks the time. "You've still got about an hour to decide if you want turkey or chicken."

"I want whatever has had less of Harry- and George's fingers up in it all morning," Zayn grumbles. "Beyond that, I don't much care."

"I'll be sure to ask," Jaymi agrees. Outside, the rain lightens to a drizzle. It's good weather for listening to music and reading a book, Jaymi thinks.

He can't resist smirking a little at Zayn and saying, "I guess that rules out eating either Harry or George for lunch, though."

"Cheeky!" Zayn looks delighted, though, nearly grinning at Jaymi. "I'm telling them you said that."

"They'll just agree. They're no fun to make fun of." Jaymi drops the last of the distro orders into a box and seals it with packing tape. "Are you going to the post office after lunch or am I?"

Zayn wrinkles his nose. "If you're offering. Maybe if the rain stops. I don't want to mess up my hair."

"Maybe _you_ should be working with Josh." Jaymi gives Zayn a wink to show that he's kidding, and together they haul the boxes back behind the counter on the off-chance that someone wanders in on such a rainy morning.

Nearly an hour's gone by when Jaymi next looks at the time, and he hops off the counter. "Lunch," he announces. "Final orders?"

Zayn sighs. "Chicken. Don't care what, just chicken."

"Chicken it is." Jaymi makes a note of it (in his head, he's not JJ, after all) and gives Zayn a wave before he pops out the door. The bakery's a stone's throw away, and then Jaymi's ducking into the smell of baking bread and dark, rich coffee blends.

 ** _006._**  
George hums quietly as he tamps down espresso for a brown sugar mocha -- dark and bitter and rich until the surprising kick of sweet at the back of the palate as an aftertaste; maybe a sprinkle of cinnamon on the top for other people, but this person waiting in line, checking their watch, they aren't a cinnamon person. George can tell.

Drinks are not actually _ordered_ at the United Direction Bakery  & Cafe. George just makes what would be best for people. It's a gift: he can see people's auras through cream and coffee and sweet simple syrups, and he is never, never wrong.

The bell above the door makes a tinkling sound, and George chances a look over to see Jaymi making his way inside, his hair damp from the rain George can still hear and see through the window.

"Hi!" he says cheerfully, grinning at Jaymi. "Harry!" he calls behind him, not bothering to look to see whether Harry's heard. He and Harry are always in tune. Harry always hears him. "Jaymi's here!"

He finishes pouring the foam onto the mocha in a curving furl. Today he's working on pouring into crescent moons. He pushes the mug across the counter to Impatience.

The man in small glasses frowns. "I wanted it to go."

"No, you don't," George says. "There's a table in the corner that's free."

The man looks taken aback by George's certainty, and he checks his watch again. "I... I suppose I can spare a few minutes," he finally says, blinking at George. George is used to this reaction. It's something about his face, he assumes. People just aren't used to smiles anymore.

It only makes George grin brighter, and Impatience takes his coffee and wanders to the free table as though in a daze. He's still on his iPad as soon as he sits down, but it's a start.

George and Harry don't like people to be stressed out in their shop. It makes them itchy. People should be happy in their shop and have time to enjoy what they've ordered; it takes Harry hours to bake everything every day, and he puts so much love into the pastries, they're worth relaxing for. Or being late to meetings back on the mainland.

"What can we get for you and Zayn, then?" George plants his hands on the counter and peers at Jaymi. "You're looking very poultry, today. Turkey or chicken?"

Harry pops up beside George with a smear of flour on his cheek. "I'd say chicken's better today, really. The crusts on the pasties turned out very flaky, and I think my sour starter is sad, so the bread isn't as good as usual."

"Chicken it is!" George confirms, thumbing across Harry's cheek to get the flour off. It's very cute, but they're _professionals_. "And then, hm. Light and sweet to match the rain, I think," he mutters as he turns to begin fixing the coffee.

Harry glows a little brighter after George has touched him, sad sour starter or not. It will be alright; he'll sing to it a little and favor it over the rye spelt for a day or two, and it will be fine.

If George's magic is being able to see into people to what they really want, or need, to drink, Harry's magic is being able to see into ingredients themselves and turn them into things better than they began: a bright red strawberry might have a sour core and need glaze with a touch of lavender, a pastry cream won't thicken properly unless Harry keeps the vanilla away from it. He knows that most everyone except George thinks he's just a shade off-kilter, but he also knows that he's _right_ about everything he serves.

Jaymi's just smiling fondly at the both of them, and George belatedly realizes he's not said a word yet. "Look at the pair of us, yammering on," he sighs, shaking his head in sorrow. "How's your day been, Jaymi-Jams? Anything exciting?"  
"Zayn is worried about Liam's new assistant," Jaymi reports. George already knew that -- he can always tell when Jaymi is worried about Zayn, because he and Harry know a little more about JaymiAndZayn than they do yet. It's why there's always a touch of cardamom in Jaymi's coffees and the barest hint of burnt caramel in Zayn's vanilla.

"She came in for a tea this morning," George remembers. "Herbal. I'll make her a hazelnut hot chocolate later; she could use it. Takes herself a bit too seriously sometimes." He frowns a little. She'd seemed very nice, if a bit meek, and he hopes with time she'll come out of her shell.

"She's very pretty," Harry chimes in from behind the half-wall into the kitchen, where he's sliding a chicken pasty with a crackling gold crust off its baking tray and into a cardboard clamshell for Zayn. They don't use styrofoam. Harry thinks it makes crusts irritated.

"Pretty and young, no wonder Zayn's tetchy," murmurs George sympathetically. "Food will make him feel better. Don't let him sulk," he instructs Jaymi.

"He doesn't _sulk_ ," Jaymi defends, but they all know he's lying. "He's just being all Zayn about it, you know how he is. Going on about change."

George and Harry exchange a significant look. Harry dresses the chicken pasty with a little cup of hot sambal on the side, because Zayn likes it that way, and turns his attention to figuring out what to make for Jaymi, as the sourdough bread is unacceptable today. It's still pale brown and beautiful, with its fat round belly and three crisp slashes across the top, but Harry doesn't like its crumb at all. George gives Harry a little shrug to bring him back to the conversation.

"Things are changing," Harry says.

"But that's good," George finishes. "We needed something a bit new around here, and I trust her. She's herbal tea and hot chocolate."

"You don't half say mad things sometimes," Jaymi mutters, but he's smiling and George knows he's cheered him up a bit. "I'll tell Zayn that. You know he trusts you about people."

"Everyone trusts George about people," Harry says over his shoulder, tossing George a grin and then humming a little melody to himself as he peruses the bread.

It's true, and it's a good thing. George has only been around on the island for about two years, and he isn't very forthcoming about where he was before – Josh knows, but always deflects that it’s not his story to tell – but from the first day he'd worked at the bakery and cafe, he'd been just right about everyone. The others all along the street were a little more like Zayn when it came to bringing new people into the fold, but once Harry had decided he wanted a George, which took all of two days, that was that.

"He'll come around, he always does." Jaymi sighs, and leans on the counter. "I just wish I could help him, sometimes. I'm a bit useless when it comes to knowing what to say to people. I'm not like you."

George tilts his head. "But you know music. Talk to him with music, if you can't with words."

Jaymi looks thoughtful at that, and thanks Harry when he brings over the bag filled with flaky pastry and savory fillings. "Maybe I'll try that," he mutters, giving George a smile and reaching over the counter to ruffle his hair. "Thanks, love."

George beams at Jaymi and passes over his to-go mug of cardamom- and nutmeg-laced buttercream latte, then whirls back to the blender to pour out Zayn's vanilla bean cream iced blended (full fat, with cream on top, because George and Harry worry about Zayn).

"Do you have a cutesy name for that?" Jaymi asks curiously, sliding the handle of the bag up his arm so he'll be able to carry both drinks. "Zayn was sure you did, but he couldn't remember it."

"The How'vanilla You Bean?" George asks.

"I'm not saying that out loud." Jaymi gives him a flat look. "Can you write it down for me and I'll just throw it at him?"

George hits Jaymi with his saddest big puppy eyes and drizzles the top of the drink with rosemary caramel before clicking on its lid.

"Oh, for --" Jaymi huffs and holds out his hand for the to-go mug. "Fine, you menace. You're going to take over the world with those eyes, aren't you?"

"He could, couldn't he?" Harry asks indulgently, and noses the side of George's shoulder. They're professional, but they're not _that_ professional. It's wonder enough that they keep the shop as clean as they do and manage to turn in all of their profits and receipts on time every day, as off in their own little world as they are.

"Are we all meeting up later, d'you think?" Jaymi asks, sliding off to the side in case anyone else comes into the bakery. "We can ask Liam to bring his new girl. Maybe Zayn will like her in person."

"Sure, we can," Harry and George say together.

"I have to start roasting for the weekend tonight," George says thoughtfully, and pats the chrome side of his monstrous red lacquered bean roaster. "But I can just come down to check on them every few hours if we meet upstairs."

"Sounds alright to me, I'll pass it on to the others. Well, Zayn and JJ and Niall. You can just ask Louis when he next gets into a strop and huffs up here." Jaymi grins, taking a sip from his coffee. It's the perfect temperature. "Lovely. Thanks!"

George already knew it was lovely, but he smiles at Jaymi anyway.

"See you later," Jaymi says as he heads for the door, sighing. The rain still hasn't stopped, and George would offer him an umbrella if he had one.

He leans back against Harry, dusting off the flour that's somehow gotten onto his own shirt. "Messy," he chides, smiling to himself.

"Sorry." Harry sounds distracted, though, and George knows that it's the sour starter bothering him. It's so temperamental, even for people who aren't Harry, and Harry takes everything so personally.

"It'll be alright. You'll make it better," George says quietly. "You'll make it brilliant, you always do."

Harry nods, and George runs his finger over the tattoo of an iced gem biscuit on Harry's arm. Harry has all manner of pastries and baked goods tattooed on himself, and on anyone else, George would think it ridiculous, but he doesn't think anything about Harry is silly.

He wraps his arms around Harry's waist and gives him a firm cuddle before he returns to the counter. There's almost never more than three people in line at a time, but he likes to be there when there's only one, even, giving them a smile before they speak so they know he's actually listening. You can do a lot with smiles. Probably even take over the world, like everyone keeps saying.

The thing is, George knows that with that ability, people will eventually expect him to be more than a barista. Harry, at least, will be a small business owner; Cowell, the First Street's landlord, will undoubtedly sell Harry the bakery as soon as he's 21. That's respectable. But George makes coffees and brews tea and blends hot chocolate, and someday, someone will say, _George, why haven't you gone back to school?_ or _George, what do you actually want to be?_

And the answer is this: he wants to roast coffee and brew tea and blend hot chocolate and be with Harry. It's the life he'd always dreamt up for himself; hours that he can set, walking down to work before it's light out and home after the lamps are back on again, a cafe with his own roaster and red-white-and-blue paint on the walls, and fresh pastries every day; a boy he thinks he's dreamt up, too, with black tattoos and bright green eyes and soft, curly hair. And he'd dreamt up a cobblestone street lit by wrought iron lamps where it was always just a little gray and pretty, on an island he'd dreamt up to be just far enough from the city that he never needed to run into anyone he'd known in school.

The others don't think that way, or he's pretty sure they don't. Sometimes Jaymi gets this look to him like he feels the same as George, like he'd understand. Maybe Jaymi thinks he's dreamt all this up as well, and George understands that feeling. Everything is so good in this place with these people that George thinks it can't possibly be real, not the cobblestones street or the pretty boys or just the right amount of distance from everything he'd known and hated.

Harry starts singing to the sour starter off in the back kitchen, and George has to duck his head to hide his smile.

Even if Harry's a dream, he's a dream that George hasn't woken from yet. He hopes it stays that way forever.

After he's served the last customer in their line, George sets to wiping down all of the surfaces at his counter until they shine, and then he vaguely thinks he'd like to create a latte that tastes like banana-nut bread with the espresso bitter as an afterthought, because he's never found one that tasted good before and he thinks that Josh would like it. Louis will be by soon enough after another squabble, and if it works, he can send the experiment back with him.

"We've still got bananas, haven't we?" George says thoughtfully, turning to Harry. "We haven't used them all?"

"No, we have a bunch in the back," Harry confirms. "Two good ones for eating and seven old ones for baking."

George sighs. "You need to stop eating all of the bananas for sale. People will think you're a monkey."

"You're the monkey and everyone knows it." Harry lowers his head a little to give George one of his ridiculous little grins. "Monkey George."

George smiles and feels warm. "Can I have one of the baking bananas? I'm doing an experiment."

"Of course you can." Harry looks almost affronted that George asked. "They're not my hostages."

George raises an eyebrow. As if Harry isn't so protective of his ingredients that he's liable to bite someone's finger off for touching them.

Harry makes a little sound at him. "Not from _you_ ," he says, hands on his hips, his voice all fond exasperation. "Stupid."

George hums. "You should make a pastry for Louis before he comes back. Things are different today, with a new person. Louis' upsetness is different. It's not bad; I just think he's on edge a bit. You know how he is about being replaced."

"I do know," Harry affirms, brightening with the prospect of a new task even as he frowns. "Our friends are so silly."

"They are," George agrees, "But you know Louis likes to think he owns everyone, especially Liam. He'll be tetchy. You should make him something with a lot of whipped cream."

"That's what I was thinking," Harry says happily, smacking a kiss to George's head. "Great minds think alike."

Harry wanders back into his kitchen and tosses a freckled brown-black banana to George over the half-wall. George catches it, and sets to making a puree to spice and blend with simple syrup.

When he peers out the window again, it's raining so hard that he can only just make out the front of JJ- and Niall's shop, shadowy figures moving in their window and all, and he smiles. Later, Louis will come huffing in again about something or other that Josh has said or done or looked like, and it'll be like any other day. George doesn't think he could imagine anything better.

The pans in the back start clanking as Harry butters ramekins to make little fudgy chocolate soufflé cakes; Louis' favorite. George mixes together the banana and syrup and strains it down smooth, and rain lashes the windows outside. It rains every day on the island, and First Street looks cozy, the window facades the only spots of bright in all the flat gray.

"Can you check the time for me?" George asks, leaning against the counter as he waits for his banana mixture to settle a little. "I might take Liam's new girl her hot chocolate, before she gets too stressed to appreciate it. If you can spare me the five minutes," he allows."

"You should wait for the rain to stop," Harry chides. "Stay here with me a bit, just us."

George smiles a little down at the mug he's measuring spices into, white sugar and brown sugar and just a touch of cinnamon. Harry is just as concerned with change as Louis or Zayn, even if he pretends he isn't, and the last change that had happened on First Street -- George's own arrival -- had shaken up everything in Harry's world.

He leaves the mug where it is and lets himself into Harry's kitchen so he can wrap his arms around Harry's waist from behind, tucking his chin over Harry's shoulder.

"It's always just us, you know," he says quietly into Harry's ear. "Doesn't matter where we are or who we're with. You know it's just us."

Harry looks down at the egg whites he's folding into tempered chocolate.

"D'you want a tea?" George asks, and kisses Harry's cheek. "And how're the sours now?"

"A little better. Still sad, but I think I'm starting to cheer them up." Harry nudges his head against George's, because his hands are busy. "Only if you make yourself one as well."

George nods. "There's nothing much else to do until the rain stops. I think my experiment is going well, though."

"If it does, I'll make a chocolate Guinness pound cake to go with it," Harry muses. "That would be nice with banana, I think."

"That'd be gorgeous, love, thank you." George should check on his experiment, but he doesn't like to leave Harry alone until he's sure he's happy. "Give us a smile?"

Harry grins at George, and George leans in to nuzzle his nose.

Their friends sometimes think it's weird, how much Harry and George like to touch each other, but it's not. Everyone needs something like that every once in a while, someone to reassure you that you're still there. Harry and George are that for each other. It's something George didn't even realize he needed until he met Harry.

Until Harry, too, George hated waking up early, and didn't like when it rained.

Change can be good.

He heads back out to his counter, passing behind Harry's display case of the day's pastries -- quivering chestnut montblanc with chocolate curls; a gorgeous, shining, fuchsia-lacquered pomegranate and cranberry tart in fluted shortcrust; freckled vanilla bean-poached pears -- and the plain, unadorned savory pasties, rolls, and pies for lunch service.

"Do you think she'd like one of the fruit tarts?" George wonders absently, ducking down to dig through the cabinets in an attempt to find the extracts. Harry always puts them somewhere different, says that it's nice to have some surprises in life even when there aren't any surprises left.

"Bring one of the pears," Harry calls over the wall divide. "She and Liam can share it."

"He does like the pears," George recalls under his breath, making a note to take one of them out and split it in two. Liam's very sensible about his pastry consumption. He's sensible about most things, actually, but George thinks that's good. It's nice to have someone around who keeps them all in line.

He sings softly under his breath as he strains the banana syrup again over a mesh to get the last of any grit, and then foams himself up some milk. (The best part of his experiments is getting to try them himself first.)

"Do you want to try my experiment with me?" he asks Harry. "It's banana, so I think you'll like it."

"Okay." Harry smiles and slides the glistening soufflés into the oven. He sweeps his hair out of his eyes and looks out the window. "I think the rain will stop soon."

"When it does, I'll take the tart and hot chocolate over. Two hot chocolates," George amends. "Liam needs one today, too."

Just then, the door bangs open and Louis bursts in wearing a blue poncho and black sunglasses and looking like an angry bedraggled muppet.

"I can't stand it anymore!" he wails. "Harold!"

"I'll make a third," George mutters quickly, ducking away. Harry knows exactly how to handle Louis, and George is -- not frightened, exactly, but Louis is still half-intimidating sometimes. George makes a damn good hot chocolate, though, and he sets about doing just that.

Harry comes rushing out of the kitchen and clucks over Louis, the same as he does three times a day -- at least -- when this happens. Louis grumbles and whines and Harry makes all the right faces.

George doesn't really understand how their relationship works, but it does work, and he supposes it's not really any of his business, anyway. He just makes hot chocolate and brings it out to Louis when he's stopped grousing so much, and when Louis smiles gratefully at him, it reminds George why he loves his job so much.

Louis' hot chocolates are always very plain, very straight-up milk choccie ganache and cream and a little vanilla. For such outrageous taste in fashion, Louis is an absurdly picky eater.

He looks a little more calm by the time George finishes, and he twists lids onto the two meant for the music shop before he takes Louis' favorite mug out to him. It's got a chip in the rim, which Louis says adds character.

"I'm headed over," George tells Harry, and bends to kiss the top of Harry's head. "If anyone comes in for a drink, I'll be back in five."

"Tell Liam I said he smells weird," Harry mutters in response. It's the sort of thing he's always telling Liam. George doesn't question it anymore.

"Okay." He carefully wraps the box of pastries up in extra brown paper just to make sure it doesn't get soggy on his way up the block, and takes a yellow umbrella from the rack on the wall.

"If it starts raining harder, stay at Liam's," Harry instructs with a frown. "I don't want you catching cold or getting splashed by a car or anything."

George snorts. "Yes, mum."

Harry wrinkles his nose at George and waves him off, turning his attention back to Louis, still damp and ruffled like a particularly disgruntled peacock.

George balances the drinks on top of his pastry box and shoulders open the door. He passes by JJ- and Niall's place on the way and gives them a nod through the tiny free space in their grimy window, but JJ is lost in his notes and Niall is nowhere to be seen.

Across the street, he can see Josh helping people in the thrift store, and a few buildings over, Zayn and Jaymi are lost in conversation, probably shouting to be heard over the music George can hear faintly even from here.

The music shop always smells good when he pushes open the door -- completely unlike the bakery, which smells like home and Harry and coffee and crust, but good all the same, like quiet. It smells quiet, which is funny since it sells instruments and today, it's not quiet at all.

Ella, it transpires, can sing as well as Liam. (Maybe better.)

"Hello," George says once she's finished. She really is quite pretty, long hair and sparkling eyes and brightly painted lips. "I've brought you hot chocolate."

She goes pink at that. "Thank you, erm -- "

"George," George supplies. "We met this morning but you seemed nervous and you had your iPad out."

"Oh, yes. Sorry. First day." She's all adorably flustered now. George decides he likes her. "It was really good, well, what I had of it." Here she exchanges an amused look with Liam. An inside joke George isn't privy to. "You didn't have to come all the way here in the rain, though, did you?"

"I wanted to bring you hot chocolate," George says, and shrugs. "I don't melt. Also, Harry sends welcomes and also a poached pear pastry for you and Liam to share. And also, we invite you to ours after work hours for a get-together."

He pauses. "And Harry said to tell you that you smell," he says to Liam apologetically. "But he's wrong I think, you're always very clean."

Liam's gone nearly purple. "Thank you, George."

"You're welcome," George replies cheerfully, holding out the bag for Liam to take. "I've wrapped it twice, to make sure it didn't get wet. The pears were especially lovely today."

"Of course they were," Liam says. "Or Harry wouldn't have used them."

George preens a little at that, because he's always very proud when people recognize what a good job Harry does.

"Anyway, ours? After work hours?" he asks expectantly. "Do you have anything planned?" he says to Ella, because he already knows Liam's coming whether he had plans or not. He generally doesn't have plans, though.

"Oh," Ella looks a little flustered. "I suppose I can. Should I bring anything?"

"Just your face." George smiles at her. He's got a very disarming smile. "Or you can leave that at home, if you'd rather. I'd prefer you didn't. I like your face."

Ella doesn't look like she knows what to say to that, and George thinks, _oh, yes, she and Liam will get on perfectly_.

"We'll see you around six, then!" he exclaims, and he scoots her cup of hot chocolate across the piano toward her. "It's very good," he says gently. "I'm good at making hot chocolate. And you need some."

Ella gives him a shy, twist-mouthed smile and nods. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Six," he reminds her. "Liam can bring you. We eat all the pastries nobody bought. It's great fun."

"Alright," Ella says. "Is there anything healthy involved?"

"Probably not today," George says, "As Harry's sourdough is sad and he doesn't want it eaten."

Ella looks a little concerned at that, but George just gives her another disarming smile and heads off again.

The rain's increased a little, but not so much that George thinks Harry will shout at him for coming back. He pops open his umbrella and concentrates on jumping past puddles.

He passes Louis on the sidewalk, and the older boy looks much calmer than when George left him, which is good.

George inhales deeply when he gets back into the bakery, shaking out his umbrella and smiling. "I'm back!" he shouts to Harry.

Harry's head pops up over the half-wall, and there's a smear of probably-nutella on his neck. "It's raining more! I told you to just stay if it was raining more. I don't want you to get the lurgy."

"I had an umbrella," protests George. "I'm not going to get lurgy." He grabs his apron and hangs it round his neck. "If you're that worried about it, give us a cuddle until you're sure I'm warm enough."

"I _can't_ ," Harry says despairingly. "I have to coddle the soufflés, I can't cuddle you."

George considers that for a moment, then leans in and licks the chocolate smear from Harry's neck. Definitely Nutella. "I expect you to make it up to me later."

"I certainly will," Harry says. Then he frowns. "Look, if you'd waited another two minutes, then the rain would have been stopped."

"I didn't want to wait another two minutes. I missed you." George smiles, glancing out the window where the rain is, indeed, slowing to a drizzle.

Harry smiles at that and ducks back down to check on the soufflés' rise. "Soppy."

"Oi, that's double cuddles later. Don't make me triple it." George points a vaguely threatening finger at Harry.

Harry shakes his head. "Go finish your experiment; my Guinness is nearly flat enough for baking now."

George perks up at the thought of his experiment. "Oh, good idea. Ella, that's the new girl, she's coming by after work," he tosses out, nearly skipping across to his banana mixture.

"Good, I'm glad," Harry says. "We need a redhead in the group. We don't have any yet, even though Niall is Irish."

"We could put red in Niall's hair," George muses. "Or Zayn's, make his blond thing all red. Would that count?"

"No," Harry grumbles. "That's like when we tried curling yours."

"We don't speak of that," George says. He tastes a pinkie of the banana syrup and decides that it needs a touch of gingerbread syrup, fragrant with star anise, and it will be perfect.

"I'll speak of it if I want. You looked like a sheep." Harry flicks what might be water at George with his fingertips. "A little baby sheep boy."

George frowns and pours some banana syrup into the bottom of a mug before adding a little cake of brown sugar. He grinds a shot of espresso and tamps it down.

"See if I give you any banana bread latte," he grumbles.

"You will," Harry sings. "Will it help if I said you were a cute little sheep boy? Sort of like Lamb Chop."

"That makes it worse," George sniffs. He's mostly sniffing because the smell of the coffee mixing with the brown sugar and syrup is _divine_.

He tops it off with foamed milk and decides that the crisp streusel he normally saves for cake batter icychinos and cinnamon bun macchiatos would be the perfect final addition.

"That looks fantastic," Harry tells him. He sounds all proud and gleeful, like he always does when George creates something new. "Think we should put it on the menu? Well, after you taste it."

"I think we'll call this one, 'Banana Karenina,'" George says thoughtfully. "There aren't many banana jokes."

"We could call it... BaNaNaNaNaNaNaNaNa Batman!" Harry grins. "Liam would have six a day."

George blinks. "Maybe we should try it before we get ahead of ourselves."

"But getting ahead of ourselves is what we do," Harry says, and pinches George's waist lightly. "You'd moved in before we'd known each other a week."

"That's different," insists George, bringing the drink up so he can inhale the smell of it. "They should make candles that smell like this."

"I think they do." Harry smiles apologetically. "We could buy one."

"We'd burn the building down." George inhales again. "Hmm. Or we could just make these all day."

The bell on the door jangles.

"Are you two sniffing each other again?" Niall asks. "You're actual puppies, honestly."

"Niall!" George exclaims, smiling at him. "Do you want to try my experiment? It's banana."

Then he tilts his head. "No, you're hungry. Harry, Niall's in your department."

"When isn't he?" Harry smiles at Niall, all dimples and happiness. "Would you like something for JJ as well?"

Niall nods and pats down his pockets until he finds the yellow slip of paper. "JJ would like a vegetable curry roll and 'something chocolaty.'"

"Are your soufflés finished?" George asks, already bustling around to wrap up a veggie curry roll.

"That's what I was thinking," Harry says, and marks down the takeaway on the pawn shop's tab slip. They pay at the end of the month, after the bank has sorted the mess of their credit receipts. "Niall, are you looking for a roast takeaway or are you just peckish? Everyone's coming over around six so we can meet Liam's new assistant."

"Just peckish then," Niall decides. "And can I have one of your soufflé things, too?"

"Of course," Harry says. "They're bittersweet chocolate with a sour raspberry coulis and pistachio crème."

"Do I like that?" Niall asks. "What's that berry I don't like?"

"Those are grapes," Harry says patiently. "They aren't berries."

"Right, the ones that look like berries but aren't. Don't trust 'em." Niall frowns. "No grapes in these, though?"

"No grapes," Harry confirms. "Just stuff you like. D'you want a roll or a sandwich?"

"Sandwich." Niall swings himself up to sit on the edge of the counter. "Or do I want a roll? No, sandwich. Definitely sandwich."

George brews Niall a very sweet tea and makes a bitter affogato for JJ, who's perpetually tired, while Harry wraps up the rest of their food.

"I'll drag JJ along even if he wants to organize all the jigsaws or something," Niall chatters along. "He could use a break. Have you met Liam's new girl? Is she nice?"

"She is nice," George says. "She's very like Liam."

"She'll be quite nice, then, yeah." Niall smiles, hopping off the counter to take the bag Harry gives him. "Thanks, mate. We'll be back about six."

From Niall and JJ, that means seven o'clock or seven thirty. They aren't great at chivvying latecomers out of the store, and are even worse at noticing the time in the first place.

"See you then," George says anyway, waving back when Niall waves before he leaves.

Once Niall leaves and the weather has mostly cleared, the busier half of the day starts with the after-school crowd and people in for their midday pick-me-up, or to get pastries or bread or buns for the night's dinner. It's always steady on from half-noon until they shutter the door at five and start sweeping, cleaning, steaming, and washing.

Cleaning is George's least favorite part of the job, even if he knows it's necessary. He loves making coffee and creating things and watching Harry create things, but he hates the aftermath of it -- brushing up crumbs and wiping down counters.

Cleaning _Harry_ up at the end of the day, though, he doesn't mind, washing sugar and flour out of Harry's curls and making sure there's no errant chocolate or cream on him anywhere. That, George finds lovely.

He finds Harry lovely, really. Harry _is_ lovely. George could find lovely things about him for days on end.

After the last mugs are clean and stacked and Harry's sung lovingly to the sour starter as he sets tomorrow's batch to proof overnight, they lock up all of the doors and head upstairs to their shared flat.

It smells perpetually of pie crust, and it's often a little drafty, but it's home and George can't think of a time when it won't feel like the best place George could be.

George tries to straighten up a little while Harry takes a shower, but the fact of the matter is that their flat just won't ever be all that tidy. None of their friends mind -- although maybe, George frets a bit, Ella will care.

He hopes she doesn't. Maybe she won't. The music shop's really tidy, though, and so is Liam, all the time, and if they're very similar, then maybe --

George sighs and fluffs one of the cushions on the sofa. He's thinking too much again.

Then Harry's arms, all vanilla and soap and black tattoo ink, wrap around George's chest from behind and he calms, the way he always does when Harry is close.

"It's going to be great," Harry assures him. "Don't worry so much."

"I never gave you permission to know me this well," George murmurs, tipping his head back so he can give Harry a nuzzle. "What if she doesn't like us?"

"You gave her hot chocolate, and my pears were perfect," Harry says indignantly. "She likes us already."

"Not everyone can be plied with hot chocolate and pears." George smiles and gives Harry a peck on the cheek. "Most people, though."

Then he gives Harry's bum a little slap. "Go put pants on or she'll think we're deviants."

"If she's going to be hanging around, she'll just have to get used to knowing what my cock looks like," grumbles Harry, but he does head off to his room to try and find pants.

George rolls his eyes and sniffs at his own jumper to see whether it smells too strongly of coffee and banana or whether he can keep wearing it. In the end, the choice is made by the knock at the door.

Maybe she likes coffee and banana smelling jumpers, George frets as he takes the three steps to the front door and takes a deep breath before he opens it.

 ** _007._**  
The thing is, Ella's never been a particularly cautious person even at times that she should. She's left school and moved out of the mainland all on her own, hasn't she, and took a job that she had no experience doing other than loving to sing. That's still a bit different than showing up at a party of nine men she's just met to be the only girl there, but -- well, if George were going to poison her, he'd've had his chance with the hot chocolate, wouldn't he, and Liam's been spectacular all day.

He's being spectacular right now, actually, telling her things about the people they're going to meet as they walk up the stairs to George and Harry's -- she thinks those are their names -- flat.

" -- and Zayn's really quiet around people he's only just met, so don't worry, he'll like you as well once he gets to know you." Liam pauses to take a breath. "He works with Jaymi, who's sweet as can be, at the record shop down the street a little way."

"Right," Ella says. "Zayn and Jaymi, music also. And who's the two who will be fighting? JJ and Louis?"

"No, Louis and _Josh_." Liam knocks at the door again. "There are a lot of J-names, but you'll get used to them."

"Louis and Josh," Ella repeats to herself. "Louis and Josh, Louis and -- oh!" she exclaims as the door finally opens. It's the George one, who looks a little like a doll, too pretty and delicately featured to be real. "Oh, hello again."  
"Hi!" George smiles brightly, which Ella suspects might be his default face. "How was the hot chocolate?"

"Delicious, thank you so much." Ella shifts a little closer to Liam, certain she'll want to stay close to him. Just in case any of these people turn out to be murderers. She doesn't think Liam is. "You're very talented."

"Thank you." George doesn't sound like a murderer, but you never really know.

Another boy -- Ella doesn't know how old any of these people are, but he looks like a boy, in the face -- appears from a doorway, wearing, well, just pants, and he's got an awful lot of skin swirled with black tattoos. Ella's almost positive she's blushing.

"I found some!" he exclaims triumphantly. "I knew I -- oh, hi," he says as he spies Ella. "I'm Harry; it's lovely to meet you."

Ella gives Harry a weak wave. "Hullo..."

She glances up at Liam, and Liam's face is pink.

"Harry," he chides, "What have we told you about nudity and strangers?"

"It worked well with George," Harry grumbles, but he heads back through the door from whence he emerged. There's the sound of a fabric avalanche and a _dammit!_ , but when Harry comes out again, he's dressed.

"Sorry," he apologizes, coming up to Ella and holding out his hand to shake hers. "I forget not everyone's used to, well. Me."

Ella shakes his hand. "That's alright. I'll only have to add a year to my therapy."

Harry looks momentarily stricken before he sees the smile lurking on Ella's lips and laughs. "I'll have you know there are people who would _pay_ to see me in my pants."

"Well," Ella pats his cheek, "If the bakery fails, you'll have a back-up career. I don't think that will happen, though, as the pear tart was beautiful."

Harry looks very pleased. "You're very beautiful," he tells her, and she blushes all over again.

Harry jumps at that and moves out of the door. "Wait, come in! George, you forgot to let them in."

"I thought it was obvious," George says sheepishly. "You can sit wherever you find room."

It's a very cozy looking flat, decorated in varying hues of green and blue. It doesn't look deliberate, really, just like maybe Harry and George really like the colors green and blue.

All of the furniture is very squashy, too, and Ella feels a little like she's wandered into The Burrow. It's nice, though, and she's overcome with the urge to tell them that it's not much, but it's perfect.

She doesn't, because maybe they don't read Harry Potter, and they'll think she's being really rude. She doesn't want that. She wants to impress these people, Liam's friends, wants them to like her.

There's a yowl from the door like a wounded cat's arrived.

"Harold! Tell Josh that I dress much better than he does!"

"Louis dresses much better than you do," Harry says without even blinking. Ella nearly topples over as a whirlwind dressed in red trousers and stripes stomps past her, followed at a more sedate pace by a boy wearing a scarf, who seems to be covering up a smirk.

"Drinks!" yells the be-striped figure as he stomps into the kitchen (actually properly stomps, too, knees up and everything). "There's only so much coffee a person can drink in a day!"

"Hi," says the other to Ella, sticking out his hand. "I'm Josh."

"Ella," she introduces herself. These people seem very fond of handshaking, which she likes. If any of them had tried to kiss her hand she thinks she might've kicked them. "It's nice to meet you, and, I'm guessing that was Louis?" she says, looking to Liam.

Josh _is_ smirking. "Right in one. And you agree, don't you, that red trousers in November is tacky?"

A loud harrumph comes from the kitchen, followed by muttering.

"Er -- I'm not sure, actually. It depends on who's wearing them?" she guesses.

"That's a safe answer," Liam tells her.

"I can accept that," replies Ella. "I don't want to make the other one more upset."

"This isn't upset," Liam, Josh, and George say in one voice. "This is average for Louis."

Ella bites the inside of her cheek and nods. "Right, then."

"He'll calm down once Harry gets chocolate in him," George tells her. "He's always calm after he's had chocolate. And Josh won't rile him up anymore, will you?" He gives Josh a firm tap on the shoulder. If it's meant to be intimidating, it doesn't work.

Josh gives George as innocent a look as his face is capable of. "I don't do it on purpose."

George's face collapses in incredulity, and Josh laughs. "Alright, I do."

He offers them a shrug. "His face is hilarious when it goes all pinchy. Like a baby about to cry."

"That's mean!" George pushes Josh's shoulder. "And it upsets Harry."

"What upsets Harry?" asks another voice as someone comes through the door. Do they just not lock the door?

"When Louis gets huffy," George responds, looking over his shoulder at the new arrivals, both of them tattooed and one looking a bit glum. "Hello, it's only JJ and Niall left now, so they'll be another half hour."

The glum one nods, but the other gives Ella a bright smile and has kind eyes. He doesn't shake her hand, though, only waves and steers the glum one to a chair they can both fit into side-by-side.

"That's Zayn and Jaymi," Liam leans over to whisper to her. "Zayn's the one with the blond in his hair. Jaymi's the other one."

"Oh," Ella says. She waves back to Jaymi. "Record store, right?"

"That's them," confirms Liam. "Niall and JJ'll be around later, and Niall's the blond. Then that's all of us!"

"Right," Ella says. "There _are_ a lot of J-names."

She's rescued from needing to remember them by Harry coming out out the kitchen, shepherding a slightly less disgruntled Louis, who is balancing an entire 12-pack of beers on his head. Harry has a tray of jewel-like pastries and brown-crusted pasties and rolls, and two loaves of bread with jars of butter and marmite.

"Leftovers," he announces. "Have at, but save a lot for Niall, as he's only eaten one sandwich today."

"Two," remembers George. "The one from breakfast and the other one for lunch."

"Oh, that's right," Harry says. "I always forget morning happened by the time it's evening."

George smiles at that like Harry's said something precious and profound, and he kisses the side of Harry's head when he sits down beside George.

It's cute enough to make Ella a little lonely, not least because George is gorgeous and if he weren't so clearly in love with Harry, she would have a mighty crush by now.

Liam sets a warm hand on her shoulder, though, and smiles one of his crinkly-eyed grins, and it's hard to feel lonely when Liam's around, she thinks. He just has this aura around him of friendliness and affability, and she likes him an awful lot.

They've polished off one of the loaves of bread and the first pack of beer by the time the last two wander in. The blond one, Niall, has bandages all over his fingers.

"I was trying to fix a goddamn E-Z-Bake Oven," he whines. "Nearly died."

"He almost burned the whole street down as well," gripes the other one, JJ, and his words are harsh but there's something soft in his face like concern and he keeps touching Niall's elbow.

"Really?" Ella asks, concerned. She touches one of Niall's hands carefully. "Does this happen a lot?"

"More than it should, prob'ly," Niall admits. He gives her a smile, cheerful enough even with the lines of pain in his face. "I'm Niall."

"Ella," she says. "Did you -- remember to unplug it before opening it up?"

"I had to plug it in to see if it worked, didn't I?" he defends. "I just forgot to unplug it once I found out it did, is all."

"If it worked... why were you fixing it?" Ella asks, tilting her head.

"To make it better," Niall says like that should be obvious. "What use is it if it can't make sandwiches?"

Ella blinks at him. "I don't think that's what they're meant for. They cook things with a light bulb."

"That's what I was trying to do, put in a stronger light bulb. I figure if you put in one that's strong enough, it could probably at least melt cheese."

Beside Ella, Liam buries his face in his hands.

"Niall," Harry offers gently, "I will teach you how to make a cheese toastie in real life if you really want."

"It's harder that way," Niall grumbles. "They don't call it a Difficult-Bake Oven."

"What's not hard about waiting for a light bulb to properly bake a cake made of play-doh and sugar?" Louis asks.

"Oh!" JJ exclaims suddenly. "That reminds me." He fishes a wad of papers out of his pocket and everyone groans, except Ella. "Firstly, what is Liam's new assistant's name? That's you, right?" he turns to Ella. "So that's answered. Ella." He sets the paper to the side. "Second, Liam, what do people do with extra Mr. Potato Head noses?"

"Aren't they the parts kids choke on the most, or something?" Liam asks, frowning. "There's four of them in most kits, so you'd think they'd be the ones lying around most of the time."

"But why would some people donate their potato heads, but not their potato noses?" JJ asks. He sounds genuinely concerned. "What are they doing with the noses?"

"Oh, I know," Ella says. "You can make Jack O'Lanterns with them. Or put them in real potatoes so they don't bud."

JJ blinks at that, and George gives Ella a broad smile.

"You're going to fit in just fine," Jaymi says, and even the glum one beside him, Zayn, nods at that.

Ella feels overjoyed, and Liam's smiling at her like she's doing very well.

JJ scribbles down her response, muttering to himself and nodding. JJ, it transpires, has a list of questions addressed to each of them, and they indulge him as he goes through them all.

When he's finished, he tucks his wad of paper back into his pocket, and looks satisfied. "Right, that's done now."

Niall gives JJ a fond look. There's a smudge of marmite on the corner of his cheek, and JJ shakes his head to wipe it away.

They're all very sweet with each other, in different ways. Ella's almost positive none of them are serial killers, except for how Louis keeps muttering to himself and glaring at Josh, and Zayn keeps giving her gimlet stares.

She doesn't think Louis is likely to _kill_ Josh, though. Maybe shave his leg hair off while he's sleeping, or dunk his hand in warm water so he'll wet himself, but not _kill_ him.

And it's obvious Josh loves it, the way he keeps smirking and giving Louis these twinkling eyes. He'll say things under his breath but loud enough that Louis can hear them.

They're all things that really shouldn't anger a grown-up person, Ella thinks, like "paisley is so 1976" or "sunglasses indoors only make sense with mullets." But Louis glowers all the same, like he's being wounded deeply.

She does notice, after a bit, that if _Harry_ says the _exact same things_ , Louis agrees and gazes on him fondly.

It must be something about Josh, then. Maybe it's a schoolyard thing and they really like pulling each other's figurative pigtails.

Zayn is quiet for the majority of the night, until Liam and Jaymi and the rest start talking about music and Ella pops in to sing a few bars of "You've Got the Love" because no one can remember who it's by.

"Candy Stratton," Zayn says in a short grunt.

"Yes!" Ella exclaims, clapping. "Thank you, that would've bothered me for ages."

Zayn gives her a little smile. "You sing well."

Ella flushes again. She has a feeling she's going to do that a lot around these boys. "Thank you so much," she says, and she honestly means it. She hopes he can tell she's being sincere.

Zayn just nods and goes back to playing with a loose thread in the knee of his jeans, and he doesn't stop until Louis and Josh both reach out to slap his hand away.

This, of course, spurs another tiff, but Ella's almost getting used to the sound of bickering in the background of every conversation.

It seems to be as common a soundtrack as the soft murmuring between Harry and George, who are good hosts -- they're by no means ignoring all of the guests -- but so much in their own little bubble that Ella can't help feeling like the presence of others in the world is an imposition unto itself.

She wonders if it's as obvious to the others how in love they are -- or even if it's obvious to themselves. It's nice to see even if it feels like she shouldn't be watching it.

The only thing that seems to pull either of them out of their little ball of kitten-like petting is when Louis gets frustrated enough to shriek _Harold!_ and Harry goes to fuss over him.

It's cute. They're all very cute, even Zayn, in a sort of grumpy puppy way. His face softens every time Jaymi says something to him, and Ella wonders if they're as oblivious as Harry and George are.

It starts to get awfully late, and once all of the pastries and bread are gone, Harry disappears into the kitchen for half an hour and returns with a piping hot pizza for them all to fall on like hyenas. The rain comes back, tapping at the windowpanes, and Ella feels more at home than she probably should.

"Your friends are nice," she whispers to Liam. At some point, she's ended up sat next to him on the sofa, pressed along his side and feeling warm and slightly dizzy with the proximity. It's not so often she gets to be in the company of cute boys, and right now she's in the company of nine, and one of them keeps smiling at her. It's a little overwhelming.

"I know." He sounds surprisingly un-condescending for saying such a thing, but instead it just comes out very proud, like he knows that it's rare for people to have _all_ nice friends.

"You're nice, as well." She puts her hand on his knee and squeezes, once, before removing it. "I'm glad I get to work with you."

Liam smiles at her and nods. "I'm glad. I've been the only one working all on my lonesome."

"I would ask if you get lonely, but you're all obviously very close." Ella smiles, looking around the room. They're all in a sort of mishmash, talking to one another. Ella and Liam are the only ones having their own conversation, but Ella doesn't feel excluded, at all.

Liam smiles at that, and Ella has the fleeting urge to ask him whether they've always been friends like this, but then realizes she knows the answer and doesn't have to find out who came here first and when they all met. It doesn't seem much to matter.

She leans her head against Liam's shoulder. It would feel very forward, if she hadn't been around him all day, and if all of his friends weren't in far more suggestive positions. She's pretty sure Niall is sitting on JJ's lap.

Liam pats her arm, then glances to the clock teetering on what probably used to be a mantelpiece and now seem to be part of a cannibalistic gaming console eating its way across the wall.

"Oh!" he exclaims, "It's nearly midnight; did you want me to walk you home?"

"Oh, I'll leave when everyone else does," Ella says, waving her hand. "I don't want to put you out."

Liam looks a little sheepish then. "Well, the thing is, you see, that we don't really. Leave? We live here. Is the thing. That's what the thing is."

Ella blinks. "Oh." Then, " _Oh_. Are you -- all... Harry and George... are?"

"Oh! No," Liam says quickly. "Not -- all. I. No, Harry and George are -- them."

"But you, are you -- them, or are you -- I'm sorry, it's none of my business, and I'm not making any sense." Ella clears her throat.

"No, no, no, I'm, you're -- " Liam coughs a little bit. "It's just, it's cheaper and it makes sense, and the bakery owns both floors anyway so there's plenty of room?"

"Oh, right, that does make sense." Ella doesn't know if she's ever gone this red in her life. "Very efficient."

It's comforting that Liam is just as red, and makes sense, because Harry and George are genuinely nuzzling at each other like a box of baby otters.

"Does it -- bother you?" Liam asks haltingly. He looks a little upset now. "Them, I mean?"

"No!" Ella says. "And it wouldn't bother me even if you were all, you know -- box of otters," she rambles, and then realizes that she's only thought that in her own head and now probably sounds completely mad. "I just only wondered, as I don't want to intrude."

"Box of otters?" Liam's just smiling again now, crinkle-eyed and all. "I've never heard it put like that."

Ella covers her face with her hands.

"Hey," says Liam gently, holding her wrists and pulling her hands away. "It's cute."

Ella doesn't think she'll ever stop blushing. There's a howl from across the room and then Harry and George are no longer nuzzling, as Harry has to go pet Louis to soothe him from some sort of slight that George is chastising Josh for.

"Come on," Liam says. "I'll walk you home."

"That would be lovely of you, if you don't mind." Ella hopes he doesn't, as it's a new place and it's dark and late, and she doesn't think it's wrong to be a little careful.

Most of them jump up to hug her on her way out -- only Zayn and Josh don't; she doesn't think Josh is particularly huggy and Zayn is made of spikes -- and then she wraps up in an extra scarf that George produces from a pile in the corner.

"I'll return it to you in the morning," she says, though it smells lovely like baking bread and spicy cologne. "When I come in for my tea."

George beams. "I'm glad you're here."

It doesn't sound like a line.

Even if it were, she thinks it would probably work on her. He's ridiculously charming, is George.

"I'm glad I'm here, too," she says quietly, smiling at him.


End file.
